OTHER ANTHOLOGIES BY CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING
Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories edited by Doug Murano and D. Alexander Ward
Tales from The Lake Vol.1 edited by Joe Mynhardt
Tales from The Lake Vol.2 edited by Joe Mynhardt, Emma Audsley, and R.J. Cavender
Fear the Reaper edited by Joe Mynhardt
For the Night is Dark edited by Ross Warren
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Copyright 2016 Crystal Lake Publishing
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ISBN: 978-1-945175-87-9
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Ben Baldwin—http://www.benbaldwin.co.uk/
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
FOREWORD FROM THE EDITOR
THE OWL BUILDER
D. Morgan Ballmer
TRAGEDY PARK
Chris Pearce
ENCLOSURES
Sumiko Saulson
WOE, VIOLENT WATER
Lily Childs
THE CRUEL
Harper Hull
RED SCREAM WITH LITTLE SMILE
Paul Edmonds
MAYBELLE
MERE JOYCE
RODENT IN THE RED ROOM
Matt Hayward
THE DEEPER I GO THE DEEPER I FEAR
Natalie Carroll
THE PIGMALION PIGS
Mark Allan Gunnells
CHEMICAL OASIS
Tommy B. Smith
HUSH
Sergio Pereira
THE REAPER’S FIRE
Kenneth W. Cain
EFFIGY
Kate Jonez
SCENTS OF FEAR
Steve Jenner
A HAND FROM THE DEPTHS
Dave De Burgh
THE BET
Amy Grech
THE MONSTER OF BISCAYNE BAY
Roxanne Dent
THE SONG AT THE EDGE OF THE UNFINISHED ROAD
Jack Bates
THE END?
FOREWORD FROM THE EDITOR
The art of storytelling has evolved over millennia, but folkloric elements are as rife in our stories as ever. Urban legends of fantastic creatures lurking within our midst, mad men with bloodthirsty appetites, ghosts of our pasts, and the cautionary tales of our youth, all play an important role in society as a whole. These stories may have changed over the years, but they’re still told around campfires or whispered at slumber parties . . .
When I was asked to oversee the compiling of Tales from the Lake: Volume 3, I instantly knew that I wanted to create an anthology filled with new, modern urban legends. I wanted memorable stories from diverse authors, stories that could potentially be retold when the opportunity arises. I also knew that I wanted to do an open call, in order to discover new authors and unique voices. With the staggering amount of stories that were submitted, however, my biggest problem was not finding what I required to create this diverse urban legend vision—there were so many fantastic stories from so many spectacular authors—but instead I struggled to choose the best ones out of the hundreds sent to me. The process was tiring, but eventually I was able to put together this book you see before you.
Tales from the Lake: Volume 3 is compiled with a specific criterion in mind—in some instances it aims to scare, in others the purpose is to be thought-provoking, and sometimes it goes out of its way to showcase the problems we deal with on a daily basis. Furthermore, I tried to balance the book out as much as possible—not only based on the stories’ “creep factor” but also to give equal opportunity based on gender, race, or sexual preference.
I hope that you, the reader, will find as much entertainment from the adventures, horrors, and explorations of the art of storytelling in Tales from the Lake: Volume 3, as I had compiling them together.
Monique Snyman
Editor of Tales from the Lake: Volume 3
THE OWL BUILDER
D. Morgan Ballmer
“I cried the first time I learned about owls eating,” Ashlynn says.
“Why?”
Travis studies the narrow form of his cousin. She rests uneasily against the open screen door of the ragged single-wide. The setting sun paints red highlights in her chestnut hair. He has trouble reconciling this young woman with the same cherub-faced child he climbed sugar maples with many years ago.
“The pellets,” Ashlynn says, “Made of all the bits the owl can’t swallow. Mostly bones, claws, and fur. Tiny graveyards, you know. All the stuff they hold inside until they just can’t do it anymore.”
Chill evening air spills down the mountainside and through the trailer, causing Ashlynn to rub one bare foot on top of the other. Travis glances around the room for something warm she might wear. The home is a maze of old newspaper, dusty cosmetics, take-out bags, and teetering ashtrays. The labyrinth of refuse stands like a monument to the life and vices of the missing Maebeth Henshaw, Ashlynn’s mother.
“That what the sheriff wanted to talk to you about? Owl pellets?” Travis says.
“No.”
He waits for her to continue, though it’s no mystery why Sheriff Coleman came to see her. Nothing secret happens among the rusty trailers and leaning outbuildings known as Alpine View. Gossip is a widely traded commodity among the indigent mountain dwellers. When the news first reached him, Travis thought Ashlynn might be taken into custody. Her mother was three weeks gone by then.
“Your Pa ever mention the Owl Builder?” she says.
“Aww Jesus, Ashlynn. Don’t tell me you gave the sheriff some cockamamie hoodoo story while Aunt Maebeth is missing. Are you trying to go to jail?” Travis says.
The twilight emphasizes the narrowness of his nose, the sharpness of his jaw. Long shadows impart a Faustian aspect to his dark and intense stare.
“I know you two have your differences, but Uncle Maynard has always been kind to me. He knows things about these mountains that most have forgotten,” Ashlynn says.
Travis removes his ball cap and sweeps his hair back. The pomade leaves a residue indistinguishable from the motor oil already staining his palm.
“My dad is crazy as a four way stop on a one-way road. That’s no secret. Sure, he served his country and all that. Then came home nuttier than a squirrel turd. You start repeating the things he says and folks will say you’ve gone soft in the head.”
He watches her stare listlessly at the mountains and wonders if perhaps she hasn’t gone a bit strange. From this angle her profile reveals striking similarities to Maebeth’s. Her supple form and high cheekbones lend her a haughty air of elegance. She has the same frosty blue eyes as her mother, a color u
nique to the Henshaw clan. Locals call the tint ‘Husky Blue’, after the Alaskan dog.
Yet for all their physical similarities the two women have little else in common. Maebeth is a wildfire recklessly burning her way through the small town. Her ferocious passion for life drew men like moths. Ashlynn dislikes attention, choosing solitude over company whenever the choice is offered. She is a ghost, forever skirting the edges of conversation.
“So your Pa never told you about him?” she says.
Travis fishes in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He listens to the chirrup of crickets pulsing through the twilight air and wishes he were a part of that conversation instead. Mindless chirping would be more satisfying than rehashing the myths of his crackpot father.
“He told me about that old feathered witch doctor. Back when he and Aunt Maebeth were kids they had a feud with the Whitley twins over a fishing spot. Said the twins threatened to kidnap them, take them to the Owl Builder. A little after that their dog went missing.”
Ashlynn nods, her gaze never leaving the treetops.
“That was mom’s dog, Bandit. He was all white with black feet,” she says.
“Might I finish? That okay with you Ms. Ashlynn?”
Travis stares at her through a curtain of cigarette smoke.
“Dang. Can’t get two words in edgewise around here. It’s almost like Maebeth never left. Yes, Bandit. The dog with the black feet. Hell, we both know this stupid story, what’s the point?”
Travis waits to see if her hide is any thicker. When she was a child and he barely a teen the two would play hide-and-go-seek together. She’d skulk after him, eyes downcast, obediently waiting for him to tell her whether to count or hide. He found her mannerisms strange, her little waddle-walk, the way she’d stand perfectly still and look straight ahead when waiting. One day he told her to stop acting like a dumb animal. She burst into tears and ran home. His father forced him to apologize, something Travis still resents. A man shouldn’t have to apologize for telling the truth.
“So you know the Whitley twins came and took Bandit. Stole him in the dead of night and delivered him to the Owl Builder. They wanted to teach our folks a lesson,” she says.
Travis takes another drag on his cigarette. He glances at the spider-webs crisscrossing his knuckles, mementos carved by the teeth of other boys. Reckless boys who teased him about his father and said he never had a mental breakdown overseas. Ones who said insanity ran through their bloodline like red hair through the Irish. A right hook silenced most of them, but it never eased his fears that they may be right. Listening to Ashlynn prattle on about the Owl Builder makes his knuckles ache.
“They walked the trails calling for him, begging Bandit to come home, but he never did. One day they hiked out to Old Soldier Peak. That’s where they found something terrible. Do you remember?” Ashlynn says.
Travis drops his head back and exhales a plume of smoke. It billows across the mildewed ceiling creating a reverse night sky, black dots peering through a field of white.
“They found some fur,” he says.
Ashlynn nods.
“White fur. No blood. And when they looked in the tree what did they spy but the largest owl this side of the Kanawha River peering back down at them. An owl the size of a toddler. White plumage covering the whole body except the wingtips and feet. Those were black.”
“Yep. That fat owl probably ate their damn dog,” Travis says. “If there even was an owl. Hell, if there even was a dog. Don’t be naïve about the old folks. My dad is an unreliable witness to life in general, and Aunt Maebeth . . . well . . . she’ll tell any story that livens up the party. Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true.”
He shifts uncomfortably under her pale blue stare. Like her mother, Ashlynn has mastered the art of pinning a man down with her gaze.
“You sure don’t seem to miss her all that much,” Ashlynn says.
“What’s that supposed to mean? She’s family. I’m worried about her. Worried enough. Still, it’s no secret that she never had two good words to say about this place or anyone in it. Maybe she finally split town. Could be one of her ex-boyfriends finally acted out an old grudge. Either way you ain’t got much family left in these parts. I’ve been talking with Pa and we don’t like you being out here alone, especially with that cross-eyed sheriff trying to sniff up a headline for himself.”
Ashlynn shrugs. She moves into the trailer. Her weaving path carries her by a table of junk mail and past a pyramid of soiled clothes. When she reaches the far wall she kneels in front of a weathered trunk and touches the latch.
“So the local hens are already clucking about me and you and uncle Maynard want to help? That’s what brought you out here?”
Travis stubs his cigarette out in the nearest ashtray. An avalanche of lipstick-stained filters cascade to the floor.
“Yeah, something like that. We want you to stay with us till everything blows over. Till Maebeth comes back or . . . whatever.”
Ashlynn opens the lid of the trunk and begins digging through it. Travis hopes whatever she’s grabbing will fit in the back of his Firebird. Blood may be thicker than water, but it doesn’t fill a gas tank. Not to mention the winding country roads which turn treacherous in the dark.
“Mom isn’t coming back, but that doesn’t mean you can’t help me,” Ashlynn says.
Travis pauses, waiting for her to finish. She quietly sifts through the contents of the trunk. Somewhere beyond the forty-watt glow of the porch light the hoot of an owl pierces the night. Travis shivers, blaming the cold mountain air for setting his body atremble.
“What do you mean, Ashlynn? Are you saying you know what happened to Maebeth?”
“Like you said, she hated this town. She wanted to fly this dump ‘cept I needed looking after. Every man she ever met here was a liar or a deadbeat. Always losing their jobs or changing their minds about moving. Some lied to get close to her. Swore they would take her to the city, or a whole other state. It was the only way she’d give them the time of day,” Ashlynn says.
Travis snorts.
“Kinda looking through rose colored glasses, Ash. Your ma is a man-eater, pure and simple. She never liked any of them guys, and when they fell on hard times she showed them the door. Remember Clive Radford working those double shifts at the lumber mill for her? Two years he slaved away. The day he was fired she changed the locks and chucked his suitcase on the porch. Truth is I half suspected him when she went missing. Or maybe Martin Bales finally did something after she stood him up at the altar. Or Tyler Adkinson. Need I go on?” Travis says.
Silence fills the room, broken only by Ashlynn resuming her excavation of the chest.
“You hear anything I just said? What are you looking for? We got the essentials back home, just grab some clothes. We can pick up the rest of your stuff tomorrow,” Travis says.
Ashlynn lifts a bulging sack from within the trunk. She uses both hands to heave the awkward bundle high enough to set upon the kitchen counter. The air is poisoned by a musty odor, one that leaves an unpleasant and salty tang at the back of Travis’ throat. He coughs and lifts his shirt collar over his nose.
“Whew lordy! I don’t know what you got in that bag but it stays here.”
Ashlynn turns toward him. Her jaw is defiantly set in an unfamiliar way. The sudden change in her demeanor is alarming.
“Thought you came to help, Cousin Travis. This bag has to come. Sheriff will be back with his hounds tomorrow and I don’t have a car,” she says.
“Whoa now, hold on just a minute. Why is the sheriff coming back with dogs and why do you need to ditch that bag? This all sounds mighty suspicious.”
Ashlynn leans her elbows on the kitchen counter. Her lips pull into a tight line. No trace remains of the hyper-sensitive girl from summers gone by. Seeing her like this dredges up old memories. Disdainful recollections of Maebeth affecting the same posture before taking a man down a peg or three with her rattlesnake tongue.
“Y
ou seem awful particular about the help you want to give,” Ashlynn says.
“Don’t use that tone with me, Ash. You’re not your momma. You’re a little girl who won’t last a month in these mountains alone. Now get yourself some clothes and get into the car. I got other things to do than worry about you vanishing, too. You can fill me in on what happened to Maebeth while we drive.”
“She’d be touched to know you care,” Ashlynn says.
“I don’t care. She never liked me. I never really liked her neither. She thought she was too big for Alpine View and everyone in it. Just some tumbleweed runaway blown in from a bus station acting like she’s the Queen of England. Still, I’m not aiming to become your accomplice. If you did something to Maebeth I expect you to say so.”
“I did,” Ashlynn says.
Travis blinks. He makes a sound like one of the old diesel engines back at his shop, sputtering and kicking but not going anywhere.
“Buh . . . uh . . . huh? Wait a second, you just said she ran off!”
“She did,” Ashlynn says.
Travis slaps his palm against his forehead. His feet splay out across the threadbare carpet.
“Lord if I don’t have the craziest relatives in all the Blue Ridge. Tell me straight, Ash, what happened to your mom? Do you know? Did you do something to her?”
Ashlynn lifts the bulging sack with both hands. The weight causes her to fall back a half-step before she steadies herself.
“Tried to tell you before. Mom always swore she’d fly this dump. She said it for years. I did my best to ease her burden. Got good grades, hoping to transfer schools. Sold secondhand clothes to make money. Learned to make soap and sell that, too, but the money I made was never enough. It wasn’t until Uncle Maynard told me about the Owl Builder that I knew there was another way.”
Travis moves to the edge of his chair as Ashlynn approaches. She is cradling the sack in her arms like a bundle of laundry. He pulls the keys to his Firebird from his pants pocket and clutches them until their teeth bite into his palm.
“I went up to his old cabin. The one past the abandoned church, just on the other side of the hemlock grove. I met him there. He was everything Uncle Maynard says, but worse. Moonlike eyes peering through a feathered mask. They aren’t human, those eyes. Not animal neither. I thought he would be old, but he wasn’t. More like, ageless. Hands curled up like they had arthritis, the skin all leathery.”
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